


bring it on home

by softnow



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, First Time, Post-Episode: s06e19 The Unnatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-05 03:31:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15855351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softnow/pseuds/softnow
Summary: he hadn't thought further than this. really, he hadn't. but with the feel of her body lingering against his chest like the phosphorescent afterimage of some bright light, he's loathe to let this night end.





	bring it on home

**Author's Note:**

> written for [pearsalot](pearsalot.tumblr.com) on tumblr who wanted some sweet post-unnatural banging. 
> 
> yes, the title is a baseball pun.

When the last of the horsehide has been slapped and the young boy has run home with his bounty tucked into the bib pocket of his overalls, they take their time in the outfield, gathering balls back into a wire basket.

He hadn't thought further than this. Really, he hadn't. But with the feel of her body lingering against his chest like the phosphorescent afterimage of some bright light, he's loathe to let this night end.

"I have beer," he blurts. "At home. I, uh... If you're interested."

He thinks—and it's dark, so he's not sure—but he thinks there's something like relief on her face when she says, "Okay."

—

They drink in the kitchen. He has chairs, a couch, a perfectly good bed (God, don't think about the bed), but they drink standing up in the kitchen, hips to the counter, a foot apart and inching closer.

"I can't believe you," he says when she tells him about her high school softball team. He can't believe she never told him. He can't believe he never asked. What else doesn't he know about this incomprehensible creature before she was his?

She cocks her head and smiles, swirls the last half of her beer in its bottle. "Well," she says, drawing it out. There's a spark in her eye that he likes. "It's not every day a girl gets a private lesson from Fox Mantle."

She's looking at him, he realizes, like a woman on a date. He's seen women look at him like that dozens of times. Except, no. He hasn't. Because this is Dana Scully, and there isn't a woman alive who's ever looked at him the way she does.

Passion, Dales said. Passion that can change your very nature. When has he ever been half the man he's been tonight, half the man he's been for her?

There's really only one thing left to do and he does it. Her cheeks are soft and warm in his palms. He ducks his head to reach her and marvels at how little distance there is. She's been so far from him for a year now. Miles and miles. And now she's here. Right here.

His lips find hers and brush once, twice, bottom, top. She's still for a moment, but then she's with him, kissing him back, so warm and sweet in his arms. So alive. More alive than she's ever been, and maybe that's just him projecting, but it doesn't matter because he has his tongue in Dana Scully's mouth and she's sucking on it, lapping at it, stroking it with hers, and this is more life than he's ever had in thirty-nine years.

—

He gets her naked in his kitchen, and his brain nearly short-circuits because Scully. Naked. In his kitchen. _Naked_.

She's as beautiful as he's ever dreamed and twice as needy, guiding his hands where she wants them, showing him how to touch, showing him how badly she needs him. His fingers play in the hot slip of her and he wonders how long she's been like this. He asks. He can't help it.

"All night," she gasps, her head dipped back, her hands white-knuckled on the countertop. "All night, God, Mulder, please."

He fits two fingers into her and watches the birth of a new solar system.

—

He makes her come on his fingers, and then again on his knees, her thigh hooked over his shoulder, her sweet little ass cradled in his palms. Her body rolls and rocks and she makes noises he's never heard before. She drips from his chin, cheeks, nose by the time he's done.

He stands and she reaches for him, slides her clever surgeon's hands right into the front of his pants to close around him and he nearly blacks out. He's never been harder. He's never wanted so desperately he can't see.

She draws him out and strokes slowly, methodically. Her palm slicks over the tip, gathering moisture, spreading it down. She twists her wrist and licks her lips and rubs her face against his chest like a hungry kitten.

"Scully," he gasps. "Scully." He has lost all language that isn't her name. She is noun and verb, subject and predicate. He will write the great American novel and it will be her, her, her.

—

They make it to the couch. Barely. She lies down and he collapses over her, needing and needing and needing. He has two hands and needs four, six. One mouth and needs a thousand. There is so much of her and so little of him and he worries that he will never be able to fill all of her, that he will never be enough.

But then she parts her thighs, drags him close, kisses him with the same fierce determination that has saved his life more times than he can count. He crushes her into the cushions. Closer, closer, closer. There will be time for breathing later.

—

She guides him home and he nearly sobs with the rightness of it. She fits him like a glove. Like the best, most perfect glove. It's a cliche he's heard a hundred times and never understood until now. She was made for this. Her body was made for this. For him.

It's too much. He drops his face to her hair and nuzzles in. She smells like apples and sweat, like dusty brown dirt and sweet night air.

She rubs his back, his neck, his trembling shoulders. Turns her head and grazes her mouth along his ear.

"Mulder," she murmurs. "It's usually better if you move."

And oh.

Oh, Scully.

You are so right.

—

After, she reclines against his chest and eats full-fat soy-free triple chocolate fudge ice cream straight from the carton. She wears his baseball jersey and nothing else, feeds him bits of fudge off her spoon.

He never knew. Never even let himself hope. That he could have this. That it could really be so easy.

"You never told me," she says, craning her neck to look up at him. "Where'd you run off to today?"

He drags his index finger down the slope of her nose, over the swollen bow of her mouth. She licks at him with her ice-chilled tongue and he shivers from the heat.

"You really wanna know?"

"Were there _extraterrestrials_?" She says it like she's mocking, but he knows that curious look. He loves her so fucking much.

"In a manner of speaking."

She settles back into his embrace, shoves a chunk of chocolate into her mouth and hums.

"I'm listening."

So he tells her. And she listens. And it's the most natural thing in the world.


End file.
